User blog:SkyrimsShillelagh/The Eighth Trial (Blog: Part 2)
Prelude More hype! Part 1 ' Part 2 ''First Trial: On a certain day, to uncertain parents, incarnate moon and star reborn. Did anyone ever know where Dagoth Ur was born? Yes he is not Nerevar, but surely that is forgivable, when so many failed Incarnates have come and gone and they were all more lacking than he? Second Trial: Neither blight nor age can harm him. The Curse-of-Flesh before him flies. Dagoth Ur is immortal. He does not age. He created the Blight, was born in it, molded by it. It is impossible for it to harm him. And it does not fly before him in fear, it flies before him because it is his army. Third Trial: In caverns dark Azura's eye sees, and makes to shine the moon and star. Who is to say Dagoth Ur is not blessed by Azura? For we have received nothing from her but his reign. '''That night, in a barracks on the Sotha plantation… Alecos had heard stories. Once upon a time the sun had not been red, but a golden yellow. The ground was green, and there was such a thing as a flower. But they were all but myths now. Ash coated the ground, and that was the end of it. Alecos watched the sun, his eyes following the giant red disk as it crept toward the western horizon. He stood quietly for a long moment, alone in the empty fields. The day’s work was done; the serfs had been herded back to their barracks. Soon the mists would come. Eventually, Alecos sighed, then turned to pick his way across the furrows and pathways, weaving between large heaps of ash. He avoided stepping on the plants—though he wasn’t sure why he bothered. The crops hardly seemed worth the effort. The plants seemed as depressed as the people who tended them. The serf barracks loomed in the waning light. Already, Alecos could see the mists beginning to form, clouding the air and giving the mound-like buildings a surreal, intangible look. The barracks stood unguarded—there was no need for watchers, for no serfs would venture outside once night arrived. Their fear of the mists was far too strong. Conversation stopped immediately. Alecos closed the door, then turned with a smile to confront the room of about thirty serfs. A firepit burned weakly at the center, and the large cauldron beside it was filled with vegetable-dappled water—the beginnings of an evening meal. The soup would be bland, of course. Still, the smell was enticing. “Good evening, everyone,” Alecos said with a sincere politeness, “How was your day?” His words broke the silence, and the women returned to their dinner preparations. A group of men sitting at a crude table, however, continued to regard Alecos with dissatisfied expressions. “We worked,” said Gemin, one of the serfs’ elders. “Something you managed to avoid.” “Fieldwork hasn’t ever really suited me,” Alecos said. “I’m afraid I’ve already tried my hand, and I’m not too good.” He smiled, holding up hands and arms that were lined with layers and layers of age old burns, like he had thrust his arms into a fire, healed to a dull whitish color. “You should not have been so reckless,” Gemin said sternly. “When we harbor a traveler, we expect him to behave himself and avoid suspicion. When you ducked away from the fields this morning, you could have earned a whipping for the men around you.” “True,” Alecos said. “But those men could also have been whipped for standing in the wrong place, for pausing too long, or for coughing when an overseer walked by. I once saw a man beaten because his master claimed that he had ‘blinked inappropriately.'” Gemin sat with narrow eyes and a stiff posture, his arm resting on the table. His expression was unyielding. Alecos sighed, rolling his eyes. “Fine. If you want me to go, I’ll be off then.” He slung his pack up on his shoulder and nonchalantly pulled open the door. Thick mist immediately began to pour through the door, drifting lazily across Alecos’s body, pooling on the floor and creeping across the dirt like a hesitant animal. Several people gasped in horror, though most of them were too stunned to make a sound. Alecos stood for a moment, staring out into the dark mists, their shifting currents lit feebly by the cooking pit’s coals. “Close the door.” Gemin’s words were a plea, not a command. Alecos did as requested, pushing the door closed and stemming the flood of grey mist. “The mist is not what you think. You fear it far too much.” “Men who venture into the mist lose their souls,” a woman whispered. Her words raised a question. Had Alecos walked in the mists? What, then, had happened to his soul? If you only knew, Alecos thought. “Well, I guess this means I’m staying.” He waved for a boy to bring him a stool. “It’s a good thing, too—it would have been a shame for me to leave before I shared my news.” More than one person perked up at the comment. This was the real reason they tolerated him—the reason why even the timid peasants would harbor a man such as Alecos, a serfs who defied Dagoth Ur’s will by traveling from plantation to plantation. A renegade he may be—a danger to the entire community—but he brought news from the outside world. “I come from the north,” Alecos said. “From lands where Dagoth Ur’s touch is less noticeable.” He spoke in a clear voice, and people leaned unconsciously toward him as they worked. On the next day, Alecos’s words would be repeated to the several hundred people who lived in other barracks. The serfs might be subservient, but they were incurable gossips. “You think me a fool, traveler,” Gemin said, “but I know what you’re doing. You’re the one they call the Caller; those burns on your arms give you away. You’re a troublemaker—you travel the plantations, stirring up discontent. You eat our food, telling your grand stories and your lies, then you disappear and leave people like me to deal with the false hopes you give our children.” Alecos raised an eyebrow. “Now, now, Gemin,” he said. “Your worries are completely unfounded. Why, I have no intention of eating your food. I brought my own.” With that, Alecos reached over and tossed his pack onto the earth before Gemin’s table. The loose bag slumped to the side, dumping an array of foods to the ground. Fine breads, fruits, and even a few thick, cured sausages bounced free. A fruit rolled across the packed earthen floor and bumped lightly against Gemin’s foot. The middle-aged serfs regarded the fruit with stunned eyes. “That’s nobleman’s food!” Alecos snorted. “Barely. You know, for a man of renowned prestige and rank, your Lord Sotha has remarkably poor taste. His pantry is an embarrassment to his noble station.” Gemin paled even further. “That’s where you went this afternoon,” he whispered. “You went to the manor. You . . . stole from the master!” “Indeed,” Alecos said. “And, might I add that while your lord’s taste in foods is deplorable, his eye for soldiers is far more impressive. Sneaking into his manor during the day was quite a challenge.” Gemin was still staring at the bag of food. “If the overseers find this here. . . .” “Well, I suggest you make it disappear then,” Alecos said. “I’d be willing to bet that it tastes a fare bit better than watered-down soup.” Two dozen sets of hungry eyes studied the food. If Gemin intended further arguments, he didn’t make them quickly enough, for his silent pause was taken as agreement. Within a few minutes, the bag’s contents had been inspected and distributed, and the pot of soup sat bubbling and ignored as the serfs feasted on a meal far more exotic. Alecos settled back, leaning against the barrack’s wooden wall and watching the people devour their food. He had spoken correctly—the pantry’s offerings had been depressingly mundane. However, this was a people who had been fed on nothing but soup and gruel since they were children. To them, breads and fruits were rare delicacies—usually eaten only as aging discards brought down by the house servants. “Your storytelling was cut short, young man,” an elderly serf noted, hobbling over to sit on a stool beside Alecos. “Oh, I suspect there will time for more later,” Alecos said. “Once all evidence of my thievery has been properly devoured. Don’t you want any of it?” “No need,” the old man said. “The last time I tried lords’ food, I had stomach pains for three days. New tastes are like new ideas, young man—the older you get, the more difficult they are for you to stomach.” Alecos paused. The old man was hardly an imposing sight. His leathered skin and bald scalp made him look more frail than it did wise. Yet, he had to be stronger than he looked—few plantation serfs lived to such ages. Many lords didn’t allow the elderly to remain home from daily work, and the frequent beatings that made up a serf’s life took a terrible toll on the elderly. “What was your name again?” Alecos asked. “Sagg.” Alecos glanced back at Gemin. “So, Sagg, tell me something. Why do you let him lead?” Sagg shrugged. “When you get to be my age, you have to be very careful where you waste your energy. Some battles just aren’t worth fighting.” There was an implication in Sagg’ eyes—he was referring to things greater than his own struggle with Gemin. “You’re satisfied with this, then?” Alecos asked, nodding toward the barrack and its half-starved, overworked occupants. “You’re content with a life full of beatings and endless drudgery?” “At least it’s a life,” Sagg said. “I know what wages malcontent and rebellion bring. The eye of Dagoth Ur, and the ire of the Sixth House, can be far more terrible than a few whippings. Men like you preach change, but I wonder. Is this a battle we can really fight?” “You’re fighting it already, Sagg. You’re just losing horribly.” Alecos shrugged. “But, what do I know? I’m just a traveling miscreant, here to eat your food and impress your youths.” Sagg shook his head. “You jest, but Gemin might have been right. I fear your visit will bring us grief.” Alecos smiled. “That’s why I didn’t contradict him—at least, not on the troublemaker point.” He paused, then smiled more deeply. “In fact, I’d say calling me a troublemaker is probably the only accurate thing Gemin has said since I got here.” “How do you do that?” Sagg asked, frowning. “What?” “Smile so much.” “Oh, I’m just a happy person.” Sagg glanced down at Alecos’ hands. “You know, I’ve only seen burns like those on one other person—and he was dead. His body was returned to Lord Sotha as proof that his punishment had been carried out.” Sagg looked up at Alecos. “He’d been caught speaking of rebellion. Sotha sent him to the Red Fissions where he was worked until he died. The lad lasted less than a month.” Alecos glanced down at his hands and forearms. They still burned sometimes, though he was certain the pain was only in his mind. He looked up at Sagg and smiled. “You ask why I smile, Sagg? Well, Dagoth Ur thinks he has claimed laughter and joy for himself. I’m disinclined to let him do so. This is one battle that doesn’t take very much effort to fight.” Sagg stared at Alecos, and for a moment Alecos thought the old man might smile in return. However, Sagg eventually just shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t—” The scream cut him off. It came from outside, perhaps to the north, though the mists distorted sounds. The people in the barrack fell silent, listening to the faint, high-pitched yells. Despite the distance and the mist, Alecos could hear the pain contained in those screams. Alecos cast Clairvoyance and Detect life underneath his resting palms. It was simple for him now, after years of practice. Aetherial power surged through his body, enhancing his senses. He knew there was a man and a woman in a room to the back. He could count the serfs in the next barrack over. Most importantly, he see the origin of the screams with supernatural eyes. Two separate people were yelling. One was an older woman, the other a younger woman—perhaps a child. The younger screams were getting further and further away. “Poor Regierith,” a nearby woman said. “That child of hers was a curse. It’s better for serfs not to have pretty daughters.” Gemin nodded. “Lord Sotha was sure to send for the girl sooner or later. We all knew it. Regierith knew it.” “Still a shame, though,” another man said. The screams continued in the distance. Casting Detect Life, Alecos was able to judge the direction accurately. She was moving toward the lord’s manor. The sounds set something off within him, and he felt his face flush with anger. Alecos turned. “Does Lord Sotha ever return the girls after he’s finished with them?” Old Sagg shook his head. “Lord Sotha is a law-abiding nobleman—he has the girls killed after a few weeks. He doesn’t want to catch the eye of the Ghouls.” That was Dagoth Ur’s command. He couldn’t afford to have half-breed children running around—children who might possess powers that serfs weren’t even supposed to know existed. . . . The screams waned, but Alecos’s anger only built. The yells reminded him of other screams. “Careful, lad,” Sagg said apprehensively. “Remember what I said about wasting energy. You’ll never raise that rebellion of yours if you get yourself killed tonight.” Alecos glanced toward the old man. Then, through the screams and the pain, he forced himself to smile. “I’m not here to lead a rebellion among you, Sagg. I just want to stir up a little trouble.” “What good could that do?” Alecos’s smile deepened. “New days are coming. Survive a little longer, and you just might see great happenings in the Ashen Empire. I bid you all thanks for your hospitality.” With that, he pulled open the door and strode out into the mist. Part 3 Category:Blog posts Category:Stories Category:The Eighth Trial